


Taste Heaven Perfectly

by TristansGirl



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-16
Updated: 2011-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TristansGirl/pseuds/TristansGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fantasy version of how Jon joined the band</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ryan Ross does not believe in the supernatural, the otherworldly. Not since he was a small boy and believing in magic and monsters was almost a requirement of that age.

No, Ryan Ross does not believe in the fantastical. And yet, the fantastical is right on front of him, breaking to pieces every notion of reality he’s ever had.

He’d come to this park to think. He’d chosen this one specifically because it is older. Unlike most of Las Vegas, it is green here, green with large, flowering bushes and trees. This park has history, it has grace, and it has many places to hide.

He had come, in the dim twilight, to think. And instead he finds himself face to face with . . .

Well, he’s not really sure what he’s face to face with. It looks like an ordinary man. Young, with long brown hair and large doe eyes and a slight curve to his nose. He’s pretty, yes, but there’s nothing really remarkable about him. Unless you count the fact that he’s on his hands and knees on the ground completely naked.

And that he has wings.

Beautiful, large pearlescent wings that grow out of his upper back and curl around his body, the tips curling against the soft grass.

There is something in the man’s eyes, a plea, a need, strong and urgent, that Ryan cannot even begin to fathom. He feels smothered by it and all he wants to do is turn and run because he can’t handle this right now. He can’t, not with his father and the band and Brent . . . all of it going to hell . . . all of it turning to dust right in front of him.

He’s about to move, away from what simply cannot be real, even though it obviously is, when the man makes a small, choked sound, his eyes closing, his face tightening in pain.

Ryan stares, frozen.

The man drops his head and alternates between groans and whimpers. Ryan can see his fingers clawing desperately at the ground, his knuckles a bone white. It is an awful thing to witness - this strange, pretty man’s agony.

Ryan steps closer, frightened and unsure. “Are you ok? Are you hurt?”

The man keeps his head down as shudder after shudder roll through his body. Just as Ryan is about to ask again, an even stranger thing happens. Ryan blinks, hard, then rubs at his eyes. Because this simply can’t be - the man’s wings cannot be shrinking into his body.

Except that they are.

As Ryan watches, the wings disappear, inch by inch into the man’s skin until there is no trace of them at all.

He stays still, transfixed, as the man finally raises his head, and reaches one trembling arm to him. His eyes are dull with traces of pain, and yet they still hold that same need, that same silent plea.

Ryan wants to run away, far away, and forget that this ever happened. He wants his normal, fucked up life back. Back before he ever saw a naked, winged man lying on the ground.

And for a brief moment, his body does begin to turn.

But the moment passes and his body twists back around, toward the man on the ground and he finds himself reaching his own arm forward. He finds himself dropping down to one knee, finds his arms encircling pale, chilled flesh, finds his mouth moving, forming hushed, soothing words.

“It’s ok. It’s all right now. I’ve got you.”


	2. Chapter 2

He disentangles himself from the man’s desperate, clutching hold and whispers, “I’ll be right back, ok?”

The look on the man’s face as he backs away tears at him maybe more than it should.

He all but runs to the car and throws open the trunk, grabbing an old blanket from an ages-ago picnic. He rushes back with it and places it around the man’s shoulders, bundling him up in it as best as he can.

The man gazes up at him and smiles, shaky and grateful and Ryan’s heart twitches and jumps in his chest.

“All right,” he says, tugging the man up. “Come on.”

It’s rough going to the car, what with the man leaning heavily against Ryan and his legs going out on him every few steps, almost as if he’s never walked before. Ryan thinks about iridescent wings shining against smooth skin and wonders if maybe he hasn’t.

Once at the car, Ryan carefully settles the man into the passenger seat. As he straightens to walk to the driver’s side, the man reaches out and grabs his wrist, yanking on it almost viciously. He’s just about to pull away, angry words on the tip of his tongue, when he catches sight of the man’s face.

It is the face of a man that is absolutely terrified.

Ryan crouches down in front of him and runs his free hand through the man’s hair. “It’s ok. I’m not leaving you, I promise. I’m just going to the other side of the car. I have to drive so I can take us home.”

“Home?”

“Yes. Home. You’ll be safe there. I promise.”

The man nods his head before slowly relaxing his grip. He no longer looks frightened, just unsure, but does not resist when Ryan slides his wrist away and hurries around to his side of the car. Even so, the man places his hands against Ryan’s leg as soon as he’s sitting down, almost as if the physical contact were a necessity.

His father is either asleep or passed out by the time they get home. Either way, it’s a godsend, because it makes sneaking into the house that much easier.

He leads the man to his bedroom, where he sits him down on the bed before grabbing a chair and sitting in front of him.

Ryan lets his gaze roam, taking in the features that are somehow prettier in the sharp lamp light than they were by moonlight. He’s so tempted to look at the man’s back, feel the skin for those wings, those amazing wings, but the man has the blanket wrapped tight around his body as if he needs it for warmth. He shudders occasionally and Ryan wonders if maybe he is cold, or still in pain, or afraid. He doesn’t look as if he’s afraid though, not anymore. He looks calm, though expectant, as if he’s perfectly content waiting for Ryan to begin.

“Who are you?” Ryan finally breathes out. “What are you?”

“What. Are. You.” The words are parroted back to him, but Ryan understands that he isn’t being mocked. The slow, hesitant way they were spoken tells him that the man is tasting them, trying them out.

He decides to try something else, pointing to himself and saying, “My name is Ryan.” He points to the man. “What’s your name?”

The answer comes in an onslaught of rapid-fire, unintelligible sounds that leave Ryan bewildered. He’s pretty sure the man just told him his name, but he knows that he will never, not in a million years, be able to repeat it.

As he stares into guileless brown eyes, he finds himself reaching forward and catching a lock of the man’s hair between his fingertips. And he thinks, even as he marvels at the softness of it, that this is either the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to him or that he is going completely mad.

“I’m going to call you Jon. Like John Doe. My mystery.”

The man, newly-christened as Jon, leans into the touch. He seems serene, the earlier pain and need gone as if they’d never existed.

“Jon? Doe?” he says, still tasting, still testing.

Ryan smiles. “Maybe not Doe.” He thinks for a minute, saying the first name that pops into his head. “How about Walker? Jon Walker.”

“Jon Walker.”

“Yes.” Ryan places his palm flat against Jon’s chest, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart. “You are Jon Walker,” he says, and he realizes, in that instant, that he’s claiming Jon as his own. Because what else does one do when a naked man with wings drops into their life? What else can one do when magic and miracles happen right in front of them?

Jon is his responsibility now - to watch over, to keep safe and care for.

A moment later, Jon surprises him by reaching out and trailing his fingertips against Ryan’s chest. Another mimic.

“Ryan. Ryan Ross.” Jon grins after he says the words, as if he is very proud of himself. That smile is sweet, all honey and sugar, and so infectious that Ryan can’t help but grin right back.

It is only much later, after Jon is cocooned in the bed’s blankets and he himself is tucked into his sleeping bag on the floor, that Ryan realizes that he never told Jon his last name.


	3. Chapter 3

The thing about Jon, as Ryan soon discovers, is that he learns at an astronomical rate. He’s a living, breathing sponge, absorbing everything that Ryan throws at him.

So he tells his father that Jon is a friend from school that needs a place to crash, his band mates that he’s feeling under the weather, dresses Jon in some of his own clothing (although it doesn’t ever fit quite right) and he spends the next few days teaching Jon about everything under the sun.

They spend at least two solid days watching movies and tv. They spend another two days flipping through books and practicing letters and words on Ryan’s battered, old notebook.

Ryan teaches Jon the wonders of popcorn and soda, Twizzlers and beef jerky. And one late, giddy night - beer.

He takes Jon to the park, although not the same park where he found him, he considers that to be bad karma. He drives him down to the neon lights of the Vegas strip at night and up into the Red Rock canyon during the day where the sand shines pink and crimson.

He takes him to Target for clothes and Cold Stone for ice cream and Starbucks for coffee. Jon is particularly enamored of Starbucks and they end up going there so often one would think it was a tenet of their religion.

And through it all, Jon is like an eager, impressionable child, approaching everything as if were an exciting adventure. It makes Ryan feel that way too. Seeing the world anew through Jon’s eyes makes him feel refreshed, reborn, and happier than he’s been in a long time.

However, no one can smile all the time. And every so often, Ryan catches Jon staring into the mirror, his back partially turned, his gaze soft and a little sad.

And Ryan doesn’t ask, because Ryan doesn’t really want to know. While Jon constantly peppers him with questions, Ryan never asks Jon a thing. Or at least not the things he should. He’s never asked Jon what he is, or where he comes from or if he needs to go back. If truth be told, he’s scared to know, scared to hear the answers, as if the knowledge will break a magic spell and send Jon away.

They spend two full weeks like this, ensconced in their own little bubble of reality, until Spencer finally corners him on the phone.

“Brent’s already flaking on us, Ryan. We don’t need the same from you,” he says.

Spencer could always work the guilt angle.

Ryan hangs up the phone with a sigh of defeat and turns toward Jon. “I’m going to take you to meet a couple of my good friends, ok?”

And Jon smiles that lopsided smile of his and nods his assent to another new adventure. “Ok.”

Meeting friends turns into band practice, which to be fair, is sorely needed. They’re supposed to start touring in a couple of weeks and none of them feel anywhere near ready, especially with Brent being absent more often than he’s present.

Ryan isn’t exactly sure what he’s going to tell his friends about Jon, but ten minutes into practice, he knows it will be the truth. He respects Brendon and Spencer far too much to tell them anything else. Besides, it’s fairly obvious to anyone that there’s something off about Jon. For some reason it bothers him that they think Jon slow, especially when he’s anything but.

So, Ryan explains to them the precious little that he knows about Jon and waits for their reactions.

Brendon believes everything right away. “I thought so!” he exclaims, giddy and a little manic in his excitement. “There’s something about you - like an aura. You’re an angel right?”

“Yes,” Jon says, nodding. He turns to Ryan, addressing him. “I am.”

Spencer is more skeptical. “I want to see the wings,” he says. It’s not quite a demand, but there’s no playfulness in his tone, either.

Ryan turns to Jon, feels that it should be his decision, and finds that Jon is already shaking his head. “I don’t want to.”

Spencer smirks a little. “Of course not.”

“It’ll hurt, Ryan,” Jon says, looking at him with large, pleading eyes. “Pulling them in, pushing them out - it’s like dying. Please don’t make me.”

Ryan steps forward and strokes at Jon’s hair, shorter now since they’ve had it cut. “Of course not. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Jon sags a little in relief, then turns and pulls his shirt up, exposing his back. “I can show this.”

Everyone steps forward, watching in rapt fascination as Jon’s skin ripples along his shoulders blades before bulging out slightly.

“Holy shit!”

The expletive comes from Spencer, who’s holding his hand over his mouth and backing away. Brendon merely stares in awe, his voice hushed and reverent when he says, “Oh. My. God.”

“Well,” Ryan says, pulling Jon’s shirt down. “Now that that’s done, can we get to practicing?”

And just like that, they do.

Brent doesn’t show, so Brendon ends up playing his part. Or trying to. He fumbles a bit, torn between giving more focus to the singing or the instrument, when Jon speaks up.

“Brendon?”

Brendon stops, they all do, and turn toward Jon.

“I think I can do what you’re doing. Can I try?”

“Try?”

“Try to play? I’ve been watching. I think I have it.”

Brendon looks to Ryan for guidance. Ryan doesn’t even have to think about it. He nods his permission and settles back to watch.

Jon doesn’t quite have it the first or second time or even the third time he plays, but he improves each time. By the fourth, he’s playing the song as if he’s played bass all his life, playing as if the song were his.

It’s the same way for every song, magic every time Jon picks up the bass, imitating what Brendon has just shown him.

By the end of practice, everyone is smiling, feeling more accomplished than they have in a long time.

Spencer watches as Jon sets the bass down, his fingers running over its long neck lovingly. He pulls Ryan to the side and whispers into his ear.

“Ryan. Jon with the bass . . . are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Ryan looks at his best friend before turning his gaze to Jon. “What about Brent?”

“Fuck Brent.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They’re headed home, Ryan driving and Jon leaning his forehead against the passenger window when Ryan suddenly pulls the car over and all but slams it into park.

Jon turns to him, confused and unsure. “Ryan?”

And Ryan just stares, because all that’s all he can do right now. Stare and try to remember how to breathe.

“Is something wrong?”

The worry, the naked fear, in Jon’s tone is what snaps him out of it. “No. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that,” he stops, struggles for the right words, tries again. “Well, you’re amazing.”

The worry dissolves from Jon’s face. Now he merely looks curious as he asks, “Did that make you happy?”

“No. Well, yes. But it’s not just that. Everything about you makes me happy.”

“Good. I like seeing you smile, Ryan. I like seeing you happy.”

“Jon, are you . . . are you really an angel?” Ryan asks, knowing damn well he should have asked this a long time ago and feeling more than a little stupid for not having done so.

“Yes.”

“Is that how you knew my name that first night?” Another question he should have asked long ago, another question he had shoved to the side. “You knew my last name without my ever saying it.”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes, that.”

“I’ve known you for a very long time, Ryan.”

“You have?”

“I’ve been with you from the moment you took your first breath on this earth. I was with you long before.”

Ryan blinks, drawing away. He’s on the edge of understanding what Jon is saying, but it’s all a little too surreal, like a dream masquerading as reality. “Before?”

“You have a very old soul, Ryan Ross.”

“I do?”

“You do.”

“So you’re like my guardian angel or something?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what you humans call it, yes.”

And then comes the question that has been lying underneath them all. The hidden one that will surely cut with its answer. But it’s time to voice it, no matter how painful the answer that follows it. “So . . . how long does this last? How long til you go back?”

At this Jon leans in close, dropping his voice to a conspiracist’s whisper. “What I told Spencer? About the wings hurting? There’s more to it than that.”

“Oh?”

Jon’s nod is very solemn. “It was so hard to come through. To cross over, to force the wings in, to become what I am now. And the whole time I was so scared. Scared that you’d see me and run away. Scared that you’d leave me there, alone and lost.”

Jon shakes his head as if ridding it of that memory before continuing. “But I made it,” he says. “And I’m comfortable here. In this skin, in this world, with your music and your friends. And with you. Especially with you. And the only way that I would ever leave, that I would ever allow my wings to grow back, is if you no longer needed me. Or wanted me.”

“That’ll never happen, Jon. I can’t imagine not wanting you. I just can’t.”

“Then I’ll stay with you forever.”

And with that Jon leans forward and places his lips against Ryan’s, soft and sweet and a little unsure. And Ryan understands, implicitly and instinctively, that this is Jon’s first kiss.

“What was that?” he asks as he pulls away, the taste of it hot upon his lips.

“It was a kiss, Ryan. People kiss each other when they like each other.” Jon says it as if it were the simplest thing in the world, as if he hadn’t just opened up a hundred avenues of confusion with his gesture.

Ryan’s about to say reply, to say something about the fact that guys don’t usually kiss other guys, that’s it’s not wrong, but it’s not really right, especially for him because he likes girls and . . . but Jon’s already turning back to the window, the corners of his mouth turning up into his familiar, easy smile, and the protest is lost somewhere in his throat.


	4. Chapter 4

They make the decision with only a few days to spare before the start of the tour - to take Brent out of the band.

Despite their earlier bravado, it is not an easy decision. Brent is a friend and what they’re doing; it feels a little like betrayal. But not only is Brent musically their weakest link, he has been distancing himself from them for quite some time, a stranger that mockingly wears their friend’s face.

In the end, it is the right choice.

One quiet evening, Ryan draws very close to Jon and explains concerts and touring. Jon listens intently, nodding his head to show that he understands.

At the end of it, he sits back, his hand rubbing lazy little circles along Jon’s wrist and says, “So, what I’m getting at is - will you play for us?”

The look in Jon’s eyes is reminiscent of the look he held in his eyes that first night in the park. “I don’t know, Ryan.”

“What’s the matter?” he asks, honestly confused. He thought that Jon would jump at this chance, just like he’s jumped at everything else so far.

“It’s just . . . this is really big. What if I mess up? Make mistakes? I could ruin things.”

“Jon, a couple days practice and you’ll know the songs backwards and forwards. You’re not going to mess up.”

“But the fans. They’ll want Brent. They won’t like me.”

“They will love you. Just like I do.” Ryan clamps his mouth shut as he realizes what he has just said. He remembers their kiss, never again repeated, and finds himself blushing. “I mean . . . just like we do. Brendon, Spencer. Me.”

Jon looks down, his face obscured so that all Ryan can see is his shaggy, brown hair. “I don’t know.”

Ryan’s heart twists a little in his chest as he reaches over and gently takes hold of Jon’s chin. He lifts it, smiling when he can once again catch Jon’s eyes. “I’m not going to force you. If you don’t want to, that’s fine. But you’d be amazing. Just so you know.”

“Would it make you happy?”

“Well, yes but-”

“Then I’ll do it.”

Ryan’s never been the kind to wear his emotions on his sleeve, so he surprises himself almost as much as he surprises Jon when he flings himself at the other man, throwing his arms around him and squeezing with all he has.

After a late night full of careful deliberation, many phone calls and lots of coffee, Jon becomes Jon Walker from Chicago. He will have worked at Starbucks. He will have been a guitar tech for The Academy Is . . . He loves photography and cats and flip-flops. Jon insists on the flip-flops.

And when it’s time, they take Jon on tour. At first, everything goes well. Scarily so, so much that Ryan almost starts to believe it’s all a dream because nothing this perfect can be real.

And then his father dies.

He flies back alone for the funeral, watching solemnly as the casket is lowered into the ground, breaking down as the sound of Taps reaches his ears.

When he comes back, he’s different. He’s self-aware enough to realize this. Pain, sadness and regret are a part of him now, etched so deeply into him that he can feel them in his bones. It takes only a few days for those feelings to blossom into anger, an anger that is bitter and stinging and always fucking there.

The guys try to help, all in their own ways. Spencer, gentle and unobtrusive. Brendon, his relentless energy subdued, but never entirely gone.

And then there’s Jon. Jon who doesn’t understand human sorrow, who’s never lost a father that he both hated and loved, adored and reviled.

Jon presses his body close to him and whispers, “How can I help you, Ryan? Tell me what I can do.”

But there is nothing that Jon can do. He may be an angel, but he is no magician, he cannot raise the dead or turn back time. There is nothing Jon can do to fix this, not with the wound still so fresh and raw.

And Ryan, too buried in his own aching sorrow, simply turns away from him, over and over again.

The drinking starts a couple of weeks later.

He’s only ever had alcohol a handful of times in his life, ever mindful not to get too drunk, always fearful that his father’s demons would become his own.

But now, things are different. Drinking to the point of dulling the pain, of not remembering, is the whole point.

It becomes an almost-nightly occurrence - achieving oblivion while pushing away everybody that cares about him along the way.

One night, he wanders off to a local bar alone, sneaks in a few drinks before they have to leave for the next venue. By the time he makes it back to the buses, he is practically thrumming with hazy rage.

And then he sees them - Jon and Brendon sitting close together on the couch, close like he and Jon used to sit. Brendon’s arm is wrapped around Jon, his hand stroking his back while Jon’s hand sits casually on Brendon’s thigh. Jon’s head lays against the tilt of Brendon’s shoulder and they are whispering, making it impossible to make out what they’re saying. It is such an intimate scene that for a moment all Ryan can feel is embarrassment at having intruded upon it.

But only for a moment. And after that moment passes all Ryan can think is _Mine_. And then a darker, stronger thought - _How fucking dare they?_

And then all rational thought is obscured by that hazy anger. That same anger that he’s been carrying around since that day in the cemetery.

“What the fuck is going on here?” he spits out.

Brendon and Jon split apart, identical looks of surprise on their faces.

“Ryan?”

“How long has this been going on?”

“What are you talking about?” Brendon asks.

“How far have you two gotten? Felt each other up? Huh? Fucking? Are you fucking behind my back?”

At this Brendon stands up. “Ryan, look, I know you’re upset, dude, but nothing happened. We’re talking. Jon just needed someone to talk to.”

“Bullshit. I know what you were doing, Urie.”

Brendon walks toward him, hands extended. “Ok, you know what? You just need to calm down. Go sleep it off.”

Ryan slaps the hands away with a ferocity that surprises him a little. “Don’t fucking patronize me.”

Brendon backs away, about to say something else, but Jon speaks first. Jon, who moved up from the couch when Ryan wasn’t looking. Jon, who’s placing his hand on Ryan’s shoulder, speaking with that soft, lilting lisp of his.

“Ryan, please. Listen to Brendon. We weren’t-”

Ryan swings around, his fist catching Jon hard against his mouth, hard enough to send him to the ground.

“Shut up!” he shouts. “I trusted you! I trusted you with everything. And this is what you do? Fuck around behind my back like a fucking slut?”

During the course of his life, Ryan will think back upon this night often and he will remember. He will remember that Brendon dropped to his knees beside Jon, his hands finding Jon’s shoulders, his eyes glaring up at him as he shouted, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He will remember that Brendon did not even wait for an answer; that he turned to Jon and quietly asked, “Are you ok?”

He will remember Jon staring up at him, eyes wide and dark with disbelief. He will remember Jon’s hand against his mouth and the tiny droplets of blood smeared against his fingers. He will remember Jon lowering his head and shaking it, his hair obscuring his beautiful, damaged face.

And lastly, Ryan will remember walking out the door, the words, “Fuck you both,” rending the air as they leave his lips.

He wakes the next morning in his bunk with a pounding headache and a sour taste in his mouth. He stumbles to the bathroom, brushes his teeth and face and downs some aspirin before walking into the kitchen area.

Spencer is sitting at the table, moving his spoon listlessly through some cereal. He looks up when he hears Ryan enter. “You’re up.”

Ryan nods, regretting it when the pounding in his head worsens. “I guess so.”

“So, I heard you were kind of a dick last night.”

The shame hits him then, hard enough that he’s almost knocked off his feet by the force of it. He remembers most of it, the accusations, the sharp, biting words.

Hitting Jon.

Most of all, he remembers hurting Jon.

“Oh God, Spencer. Fuck. I fucked up so bad.”

“So you don’t really think that they’re having some affair behind your back?” Spencer’s voice is deadpan while the expression on his face lets Ryan know that Spencer believes him to be the biggest idiot that ever lived.

“No. That was the alcohol talking. And my stupidity.”

Spencer stares at him for a long time before finally sighing. “Ryan, we want to help you through this, but you have to let us, man.”

“I know.”

“And drinking isn’t the way to fix this. It’s changing you. It’s changing us.”

“I know, Spence.”

“You hit him, Ryan. You hit an angel. Someone who came down from fucking heaven for you and you hit him.”

“I know!” Ryan yells despite the ache in his head. “I know, believe me. I know. Just . . . look . . . let me go talk to Brendon and Jon so I can start fixing this.”

“Brendon’s asleep. You can apologize to him later.”

“What about Jon?”

Another sigh. “I don’t know where he is. He left a little while ago, really upset. He didn’t sleep all night.”

Ryan turns his head toward the door. “I have to find him.”

“I know. So what the fuck are you waiting for?”

Ryan steps out of the bus and begins to search, worming his way onto everyone’s bus, peering into every nook and cranny for any place where Jon might be hiding.

When he comes up empty, he starts to walk through the parking lot, growing more and more desperate as the time passes. It’s early still and most everyone is asleep but he finally runs across a bleary guitar tech who tells him that he saw Jon only minutes before.

Ryan runs, hoping that he’s indeed moving in the right direction when he sees something familiar. In the farthest corner of the parking lot, on the ground in front of an old dumpster, is a gray t-shirt. Ryan knows that it belongs to Jon. He knows it even before he picks it up and smells Jon’s scent against its fabric.

He grabs it and stands, but before he can move another step, he hears it. Whimpering, barely stifled. Harsh breathing. The sounds of someone who is in pain and is trying to stay quiet. Sounds that are all too familiar.

Ryan walks around to the back of the dumpster. He is not surprised to see Jon there. The surprise comes from the fact that Jon is crouched down on the ground, his body trembling, his face obscured by his hair, and the wings are inching out of his back.

Ryan drops to his knees in front of him and places his hands on Jon’s shoulders.

Jon looks up, pain distorting his features. He’s still beautiful, but it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. He flinches, edging away from Ryan.

 _And the only way that I would ever leave, that I would ever allow my wings to grow back, is if you no longer needed me. Or wanted me._

His mind calls up the words. He knows what this means, the only thing it can mean.

“Jon, no! Don’t leave. Don’t leave me.”

Jon’s voice is ragged and pained as he says, “You don’t . . . want me.”

“John, listen, please. I do want you. I want you to stay.”

Jon shakes his head, and the wings extend out another inch. “You hurt me.”

“Last night was me being a drunk asshole. An idiot. I didn’t mean it. Any of it.”

“You said that I-”

“I didn’t mean it. I was angry at other things and I took it out on you and Brendon. But I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry.”

As Ryan watches, the wings come out just a little farther. Ryan feels a flush of panic. They’re almost halfway out now. Almost halfway done and then what? Jon will just fly away? Disappear? The thought drives him nearly to despair and he clutches at Jon’s arms, bringing their faces close together.

“Jon. I want you. I need you. I can’t do this without you. I can’t. I love you.”

“You love me?”

Ryan laughs and it sounds a little hysterical, but he doesn’t really care. “Yeah. I think I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you, Jon. Maybe . . . I don’t know, maybe before.”

Jon takes a deep, shuddering breath and Ryan risks taking a look at his back, noting with relief that the wings no longer seem to be moving.

“It hurt,” Jon says softly.

Ryan grazes his knuckles gently against Jon’s cheek, skimming the edge of his swollen lip. “I know, I’m . . . ”

“That isn’t what hurt.”

Ryan has never in his life felt so ashamed, so small. “Listen, I can’t promise that I won’t make mistakes or let you down again. I’m human and that’s what humans do. But I do promise that I will never hit you again. Not ever. I will never do anything like this to you again.”

Jon draws his eyebrows together, face intent in thought. After a moment, his features smooth out. Now he looks hopeful, though unsure. “You really want me?”

“God, I really do.” And then on impulse, Ryan leans forward, pressing his lips to Jon’s with care. “I really do,” he says as he pulls away.

Jon offers him a shaky smile. “Then . . . I guess I’ll stay.”

Those five simple words fill Ryan with a joy that is both boundless and surreal. He would shout, but he doesn’t want to attract any attention, so he settles for wrapping his arms around Jon and holding him very close while a litany of whispered ‘thank you’s’ escape his lips.

It takes several minutes for Jon to get the wings back in. By the time he’s done, he’s exhausted from the effort and shaking from the pain. Ryan has to all but carry him back to the bus where he eases him down on his bunk with infinite care.

Spencer comes up behind him just as he’s pulling a blanket up to Jon’s chest.

“Is he ok?” Spencer whispers.

Ryan cards his fingers through Jon’s sweat-soaked hair, taking in his pale, drawn features and his weary smile. He doesn’t bother to turn around when he answers.

“He’s going to be fine, Spencer. We all are.”

And he truly believes it. For the first time in a long time, he truly believes it.


End file.
